Lost in Translation
by rthstewart
Summary: They say languages take a lifetime to learn. For Peter it takes about fifteen years. And proper motivation. Chapter 1, four times Peter did not understand Rat and Crow, and the one time he did. Chapter 2, in which Peter dotes, Morgan pecks, and Fooh and Beehn play with other people's toys. Chapter 3 is Otter Nonsense. Everybody Lives Nobody Leaves Golden Age AU
1. Lost in Translation

_**Lost in Translation**_  
_They say languages take a lifetime to learn. For Peter it takes about fifteen years. And proper motivation._

Four times Peter did not understand Rat and Crow, and one time he did.

* * *

Parts of this are taken from Part 1 of The Stone Gryphon and from _Black as Rat and Crow_. After _Herd Mentality_, I needed something happy and fun and so did readers. I asked for prompts and two anons (or more) asked that I write about Peter and his ongoing difficulties with Rat and Crow code.

Cover photo from dailyotter dot org.

* * *

_**The Code was very, very long.**_

"No," Peter repeated stubbornly.

"You must!" Edmund insisted, waving a quill. "It's easy!"

_Perhaps for you, my brilliant, over-excitable brother._

"If Edmund and I can learn it, you certainly can," Susan added.

Peter loathed this implication that his sister and brother were clever while he was not. He was clever! Truly! He just despised subterfuge, skullduggery, ciphers, allegory and anything that interfered with plain speaking.

"You both find it easy because you created it. And you are both pleased with it for the same reason," Peter told his eager brother and sister.

"I don't see why we can't just keep the key with us," Lucy said, looking up from the long, long parchment of coded words they were supposed to memorise and use for all "unsecured written communications."

"But that would defeat the whole purpose of it!" Edmund exclaimed. "It's supposed to be secret! Only we know it! Only we can write it! Only we can read it!"

"The messages are coded so security is not compromised if the Bird or bird carrying the message is waylaid en route," Peter argued. "Once it arrives, there is no reason why we can't keep a codebook with us."

_Codebooks_. Aslan help them all, it sounded like Nazi spycatchers - who Peter vaguely remembered from England, a place which felt more and more remote with each passing month.

The code Edmund and Susan had concocted was over two hundred words! On and on and on and on it went, completely overwhelming. _Yellow Kavossed Jovox Printure Crisp Barracan Rosehips Kismat Curd Luflur Odishly Happenstance Scrump Sound Propincap Declension Plakill Tribop_

No word was related to anything. There was no mnemonic device, no contextual clue. He couldn't remember one word in five. Edmund had already tried drilling him and had been a very good sport to not mock him when Peter had confused _Fragut_ (Running out of fresh water) with _Lective_ (Please communicate sincere regrets to our host).

"Codebooks can be stolen and compromised," Edmund said, voice cracking in his excitement. His brother had grown another hand in the last month.

"It will not do us any good if Lu and I can't read it!" Peter said.

"Peter, it is more secure," Susan replied, sounding so reasonable, it put his back up and took all force out of his argument. "After that business with the assassins, we really need to take more precautions."

The truth sat heavily amongst them. Personal Bodyguards, more security, locks removed from interior doors so their Guards could reach them at all times - it was all part of their new reality as ruling Kings and Queens, and not children in some elaborate game of costumed medieval theater.

_I am a King. I should be able to do as I please._ That was, of course, a terrible falsehood.

Edmund looked so terribly eager. He was thrilled to make this unique contribution to their safety and had been working with Susan on the code for a month.

"Would you please at least try it?" Edmund asked, his voice breaking again with a hint of pleading.

Reluctantly, Peter nodded. He knew this wasn't going to end well.

* * *

**_Jobox and Printure_**

"I don't believe I ever fully appreciated the difficulty of moving an army with herbivores in it," Peter sighed, exasperation warring with fatigue. Another lesson of Narnia and for everything he seemed to do well, twelve other problems arose of which he was so ignorant, he did not even know it was a problem until, like their fodder wagon now, they were knee-deep in the mud and struggling to find purchase.

Lucy tried to put an arm around his shoulders, but chain mail interfered with familial hugs, making them neither easy to give, nor pleasant to receive. Together they watched as Dwarfs, Bears, and Centaurs tried to push their fodder wagon out of the muck.

"Unfortunately, none of our archers is a Great Cat," Lucy said, with a sigh equal to his own. "Archers all have arms for holding bows and so for eating."

Rain was dripping off her helm and down her nose. Peter would have tried to brush it off but, with the heavy gauntlets, so delicate a maneuver would be concussive in impact. Lucy delicately flicked the rain away with her own gloved hand.

"At least the carnivores can fend for themselves," Peter said with glance back at the bloodied muzzles of four Leopards sheltering from the driving rain under an Oak. As they could not help with the hauling and pushing, the Cats had taken the opportunity to hunt. The (dumb) deer of the Northern Wilds, the Cats reported, were thin and stringy, the lack of winter grazing affecting prey and predator. The Cats were now cleaning themselves as best they could. They were fastidious about such things – something else to consider if they were ever so accursed as to have to repel a raiding Ettin party bent upon testing Narnia's young Monarchs in the melting snow, cold rain and endless mud of early spring.

Master Roblang slogged over, carrying a plank. He and the other Dwarfs worked to wedge it under the mired wagon to give the wheels some purchase in the sucking mud. Dwarfs did not mind the mud, Peter considered, so long as they could still march through it. They could handle bows as well and, hardy as they were, could do on shorter rations than most with nothing to show for it than a bit of ill temper. What plant matter they ate could, for a time, come from brewed barley and hops alone. But would that mean merely replacing the grains, hay, and greenstuffs in the fodder wagons with beer barrels?

"Steady Friends," Roblang shouted. With another mighty heave from behind, the wheels rolled onto the boards as wagon, Beasts, Dwarfs and Centaurs all groaned with the effort.

"Peter," Lucy whispered. "Did you know how much Centaurs eat?"

"I think we will need to reassess that aspect of our planning next time."

ooOOoo

Peter stared. _What in blazes?_ Had Susan and Edmund, the Concert of Minds, lost their collective minds?

The cart's wheels squelched and splurted in the mud and finally ground to a sticky, slurping stop. The oxen, poor things, were heaving in their traces and would be able to go no further. Moreover, their addition to the company meant two more mouths to feed from their dwindling foodstuffs.

Peter knew, based upon the rain-every-day-of-the-last-ten-day struggle with their company's own fodder wagon that this cart, newly arrived from Cair Paravel, would require two Centaurs, four Dwarfs, and a yoke of fresh oxen (which they did not have) to free from the sucking black mud. They'd just have to leave it and come back for it later.

And as for its contents.

"Chickens?" Lucy asked through a nose stuffed with cold. They were both ill from the perpetual damp, sneezing during the day, and shivering and fitful at night.

The cart was loaded with precisely and carefully stacked crates, all lashed together, and rising up, higher than Peter was tall. Inside the crates, there must have been a dozen of them, were Hens, all clucking and chattering amongst themselves.

"I say," one Hen clucked. "Could someone please put the oilcloth back over us. "We're getting wet here! And it's cold!"

The others all squawked their agreement and complaints. Another said, "If someone will just drive us over to the coop and get us some grain, we'll just get right to it! We're all starving and no grain, no eggs!"

"And nice straw for nesting!"

"And clean water!"

"Peter?" Lucy asked. "I don't understand. Did Edmund not read our message?"

"I wrote and asked for a _Jobox._ Doesn't that mean a company of archers?"

Lucy shrugged. "I told you before I thought _Printure_ was archers. I thought _Jobox_ meant _Please sign on the dotted line and return at your earliest convenience."_

There was a crack of thunder and the skies opened up again. The Hens complaints grew louder.

"I didn't even know we had a code for _Please send a dozen laying Hens into an Army company's campaign at first opportunity._"

* * *

**___Cargoose, hurst, or groggled, but never __plakill_ or _tribop_**

"Lu? How's your Rat and Crow?"

His sister snorted, the sound muffled as she struggled out of her mail shirt.

Peter was writing bent over a propped up stool in their makeshift camp. They were three nights out of Cair Paravel, patrolling their northern borders, and investigating reports of Ettin incursions from across the Shribble. It had been over four years since the Ettins had made a nuisance of themselves but with a hard winter in the North they were reportedly coming across the border again, looking for game and unconcerned with whether it was a dumb beast or a Talking Narnian. The advance spies, their swift, far-seeing Raptors, had reported some flattened trees and boulders that looked to have been dropped or flung from a great, giant-sized height, but nothing else thus far. The Hounds gone to scent out the area had not yet returned.

"Ouch! Peter, would you? I've lost my only coif, again."

Lucy's hair always became entangled in the metal links of chain mail and she'd found a solution but never remembered to bring it. He put the writing charcoal down by the candle illuminating their cramped command tent and helped his sister tease her hair free.

"Thank you," she sighed and gently pulled the mail shirt the rest of the way over her head. Lucy was for more careful with her armor than with her other clothing, which looked to be last year's patchiest.

She looked around his shoulder at the parchment spread on the stool. _"Barracan?"_ Lucy asked, reading the cipher he had written. "Is that the right code word? Doesn't _Barracan_ mean _The battle has begun?_"

"Does it?" Peter replied turning back to the coded update that was to be his daily report to Susan.

Years of practice and Peter would rather review trade treaties involving cotton and chicken legs, negotiate border disputes between knife-wielding, ravenous, stinking hordes, settle marital disputes between Songbirds, and teach dancing to a score of stupid princesses pretending to be demure, than write a single line to Edmund or Susan from the road.

"I thought _Barracan_ meant _All is well here_ and that _Crisp_ meant _The battle has begun_," Peter said.

"No," corrected Dalia, Peter's Cheetah Guard, from her watchful corner. "_Crisp_ means _Can you recommend a good cook_?"

Why in blazes did they even have a code for _Can you recommend a good cook_? For probably the same reason that they had a code about sending laying Hens into an Army company, Peter recalled grimly.

_"_I believe _Yellow_ is the word you require, High King," said Briony, Lucy's She-Wolf Guard.

"_Yellow_?" Peter repeated, rubbing out _Barracan_. At this rate, he would put a hole in the note to Susan.

"Yes!" Lucy agreed. "Thank you, Briony dear. _Yellow_ does mean _All is well here._" She paused. "I think."

After all this time and Lucy was still no better than he at Rat and Crow. This was always a problem when the two of them took to the field together and left the Concert of Minds behind.

_A second opinion was warranted._

"Dalia?" Peter asked, looking to his personal advisor and sagacious confidant.

"I concur," the Cheetah said.

"_Yellow_ it is then," Peter said, writing the word with a flourish. "What else?"

"We should tell King Edmund and Queen Susan that no enemy has yet been sighted," Briony offered.

"Oh! I know that one!" Lucy exclaimed. "It's _Kavossed!_"

Peter frowned. "I don't think so, Lu. I think _kavossed_ means _Many dead_." That was one he did know.

"Oh, we don't want that one then," Lucy said. "Perhaps _groggled_ is the word we are looking for?

"I don't think so. Doesn't _groggled_ mean _Our compliments to your House in this season of joy?_"

Dalia offered, "I thought it meant, _Supply wagons struck by lightning_."

"I _believe_," Peter said, racking his weary mind for the appropriate coded phrase, "_No enemy yet sighted_ is either _Cargoose_ or _Hurst_." He looked to his assembled team who, noble, brave, and talented though they all were, nonetheless were Rats and Crows neither by pedigree nor inclination – for which daily he thanked the Lion most ardently. "Thoughts, my Friends?"

"Don't use _Jobox_! Or _Printure!_" Lucy said helpfully, thereby avoiding the delivery of laying Hens to their camp and treaties to be executed by signing on the dotted line.

"And do not use _plakill_ or _tribop,_" Dalia added.

Not that Peter would ever repeat those errors. He had wanted his tournament armor; _plakill_ had gotten him a trunk of fancy dress and red leather trousers that would have looked fetching on someone else. As for _tribop_, well, he still blushed over the embarrassment that one had caused whilst visiting the Anvard court. They sang songs about it - behind his back.

"I thought the code you wanted was _Groggled,_" Lucy said, frowning. With a shrug, she said, "Just write all three. and say, 'Don't remember which word means _No enemy yet sighted_.'"

Peter dutifully wrote out, _"Forgot if 'cargoose,' 'hurst,' or 'groggled'' means 'No enemy yet sighted.' Please advise. Regardless, condition is Yellow_."

This message, Peter had to concede, would make Edmund and Susan very cross. Three days later they learned just how cross when a woolen horse blanket, far too warm for the mild season, and a map of the City of Tashbaan arrived from Edmund. Predicting Lucy's need, Susan also sent three coifs for her sister's hair.

ooOOoo

_**Peacock is an ass**  
_

Peter scrubbed the grit from his eyes and stared at the message. He didn't have time for this Rat and Crow nonsense. They were moving against the Ettins under cover of the full dark once the Bat scouts reported the raiders were asleep around their bonfire.

And now there was this peculiar news from Edmund. If they weren't on the verge of launching their own counter-offensive, Peter would order their Army back home this very instant. It was strange, though, that he could feel Edmund's calm in the message. Whatever had occasioned this very alarming note had past, and for the benefit of Narnia.

Still…

"Leszi, what do you make of this?" Peter shoved the scrap at his swordmaster.

The Satyr held the message up to the shielded lantern, scanned it quickly by a narrow beam, and again doused the light.

"It's from Edmund."

_Heated white caps lice. Smooth Beauty 2 Hart.  
Luflur on Curd.  
Winged.  
__**Yellow!**__  
Peacock's an ass. _

Leszi snorted. "What good's your clever brother's clever code when it's too clever for a fighting soldier?"

The persistent complaint of Rat and Crow.

"I think Edmund says in the first line that there was danger in Tashbaan that they had to flee but that they escaped safely by sea back to Cair Paravel."

"If you say so," Leszi said. He picked at the corner of the scrap and scowled. "Isn't _Curd_ the code for Anvard? _Winged_ means victory for Narnia? I don't remember _Luflur_ except that it and kavossed are words I never wanted to see."

"True that. _Luflur on Curd_ means Calormen crossed the desert and attacked Anvard and _Winged_ means that somehow Narnia and Archenland prevailed. And to keep us from racing back to their aid, Edmund emphasized the word _Yellow_ to say they are all fine and not to worry."

Leszi let out a breath, as relieved as Peter had been. "So what's this last line?"

"_Peacock_ means Rabadash."

"And ass?"

Peter shrugged helplessly. "I have no idea. I don't know what _ass_ means in Rat and Crow."

Leszi crumpled up the message, shoved it into his mouth, and gulped it down. Satyrs were like Goats that way - they would eat anything though it was not polite to comment upon. "The man _is_ an ass." Leszi replied, ambiguous enough to refer either to Rabadash or to the Royal Lazy Arse, King Edmund.

There was a movement of night air. Flapping wings were overhead and Peter could just make out the high pitched voices. The Bats had returned.

It was time to move out.

ooOOoo

**_Morath_**

Fortunately, Aidan understood his state of mind as they patrolled the Northern border. Peter apologized more than once for his vacant preoccupation, but Lucy's consort was as gracious about Peter's distraction as he was about everything else.

"Do not trouble yourself with it at all, Peter," Aidan as they rode from the headwaters of the Shribble to where it emptied into the sea. "Truly. I am very glad to be here to share the burdens you all have borne for so long and so also hopefully the joy." With a sad and wistful smile, he added, "I do understand."

So they criss-crossed the River, collecting reports, talking to the dour Marsh-Wiggles who watched and spied, and investigating old camps and hideaways, still abandoned. Ettins were creatures of habit, after all. They camped two days atop the bluff that looked onto the blasted plains of Ettinsmoor. They burned hot, high fires, made noise, flew bright banners, and made themselves open, obvious, and aggressive. _See us, Harfang. We are here. We never sleep. Know that Narnia is defended._

In the distance, they could see, and the far-seeing Raptors confirmed, lumpy piles of rock moving about. The Ettins had their own scouts and the Narnians made certain they had plenty to see lest they think of testing a border.

The morning of the third day, a little Swift, a Bird as fast as it was dim, fell like a stone from the sky as they were breaking camp.

Peter scooped the Bird up gently in his palm, willing himself to patience.

"Friend," he said. "Our great thanks. What news from Cair Paravel?" Aidan thrust a rag at him and Peter squeezed drops of water into the exhausted Bird's mouth that were gratefully gulped down. There was a message tied carefully to his leg but the Bird had flown very hard and fast and deserved a moment's recovery. In his anxiety for the news, Peter did not want to alarm the Swift, who would promptly forget what little of the message he had been told orally.

"From King Edmund," the Bird gasped. "News."

A ripple of shock went through the Company at the Swift's strangled words. They had all been on edge knowing what might occur at Cair Paravel in their absence.

"Good or ill?" Peter demanded.

In his eagerness, Peter had pushed the Swift too hard. The Bird cringed in his hand and mutely offered his leg. Hands shaking, Peter carefully removed the tiny scrap and unrolled it.

It was Edmund's hand, written hastily.

_Morath. Yellow!  
_

_Morath._ The word he had hoped for, dreamed of, memorised, and prayed for; a word only recently added to the dreaded Rat and Crow. A word Peter himself had created. And if_ Yellow,_ then things were _very_ well indeed. Beneath the code, penned even more hurriedly, something Peter had never seen Edmund write before, uncoded. _Please come home._

"Good news," Peter breathed, then shouted it, so that all could hear. "Good news from Edmund! All is well! They are all well! I must..."

Someone tossed reins in his hands, his horse already saddled and Peter hauled himself up. "Fooh, Beehn!" he called to his Cheetah Guards. "We're..."

"Already on our way," Fooh called over his shoulder and loped away after his brother.

Peter gathered his reins and leaned in his saddle. "Home!" His horse sprang forward, chasing after the Cheetahs.

They followed singing Birds and jubilantly pealing bells all the way to Cair Paravel.

When the Palace finally came into view, Peter's dream was flying high from the ramparts. It had been lovingly sewn months ago, each stitch bearing the hopes of wistful Narnians. Alongside the Four, a new pennant now snapped in the wind, unfurling streamers of Linch green and Narnian gold and scarlet.

The Narnians of Cair Paravel and environs were thronging the road to the Palace, all shouting and cheering. Some had obviously been celebrating all night.

No one stopped him though there were many shouted congratulations as he galloped up the road to the Palace. Why were they congratulating him? He had done nothing to bring about this day!

"Make way for the High King! Let him through!"

The crowds parted. He would have galloped his horse straight into the Palace but the Dryad groom and Mr. Hoberry appeared first. Peter vaulted off, threw the reins in their general direction, hesitated... Fooh and Beehn were exhausted, tongues lolling out, sides heaving.

"Go!" Fooh gasped. "We're fine!"

Peter took the steps three at a time, bells ringing in his ears.

Susan met him first, at the stair to the Monarchs' wing. He was reeking of sweat, smoke, horse, and travel but his sister hugged him fiercely.

"Everyone, are they..."

"Fine," Susan soothed. She sniffed. "Better than fine. And I shall start crying again for sheer relief." She gave him a shove. "Go! They are waiting for you."

Lucy ambushed him at the top of the stair. Their embrace was awkward; she had to move her swollen belly to the side - had she gotten bigger in the last 10-day or was it his imagination? Peter knew his little sister was not made of glass, still he didn't feel he could pick her up and swing her around as he would have otherwise.

He was trying to push past her but Lucy grabbed him by the shirt. "Stop!" she ordered.

A slice of fear … was there...

"Everything is _fine_" she insisted. "Deep breath, Peter. Be calm or the Cat will scold and the Healer will bar the door."

Now that he was here, he did notice the contrast. In comparison to the hubbub and celebrations outside, all was very, uncommonly, still in the Monarchs' wing.

"Healer?" He looked over her shoulder and saw at the end of the hall a shrouded figure, hooded and cloaked in black, hunched over a stool. He could barely make out the shape. A large, green-eyed Cat, purring loudly, sat next to her? Him? He could not tell.

"Ajouga Fumb," Lucy whispered, nodding to the person on the stool. "She appeared yesterday evening, unannounced. She's very skilled. It was a great honour that she attended." His sister paused. "She is of the Maza Blaksa clan?"

_Oh._

Even in his impatience, Peter bowed respectfully to the Black Dwarfess. "Thank you, Lady for coming to us. We are honoured by your presence and grateful for your assistance in our need."

"You are welcome, High King," the Cat said, in the stead of her companion. "I am Gahiji. We were pleased to attend. All is well within and we foresee no difficulties at this time. But, please, compose yourself."

The Black Dwarfess stirred in her chair. The Cat glanced over her shoulder and then looked back at him. However they communicated, it was silently. "They are all awake within," Gahiji said. "You may enter."

Still, Peter knocked, though the Guards, Jalur and Rafiqa, would have known he was outside the door.

"Come in, Peter!" Edmund called.

Peter pushed open the door.

Morgan was lying in the bed, propped on pillows. Edmund was standing at the window, holding...

There was roaring in his ears, blood rushing straight down, feet rooted at the threshold, he was paralyzed. All this time, so long and...

In the quiet peace of the room, he could hear Rafiqa's tail thumping on the carpet and Jalur's satisfied chuff.

"Don't just stand there," Edmund finally said, sounding so tired and so very, very happy. "Come and meet your nephew, Edmund Linch."

Peter crossed the distance in two strides. As eager as he was, first he went to Morgan's side, leaned down, took her hand, and kissed it. "Congratulations, sister. We were all blessed the day you found us."

Morgan smiled.

_A boy. A nephew. A Prince of Narnia_. "Is everything... all... Are you? Is he?" Peter floundered, not even sure what to say, how to ask the questions swirling in his mind that could not find their way to his mouth.

"Ten fingers, ten toes," Morgan said. "Lungs of an elephant, appetite of a Centaur and as nocturnal as an Owl."

"And you?" Peter asked. "How are you who did all the work?"

"I am well," Morgan replied.

"I worked, too!" Edmund said in a voice just above a whisper as he gently rocked his son.

Jalur growled.

"Some," Edmund insisted. "Moral support. Bathed her brow. Held her hand."

Morgan's lopsided gaze went past Peter to her bondmate and spouse. "You did indeed." Her soft expression was intimate and beautiful.

"Would you like to hold him?" Edmund asked.

"I.. uhmmm.. yes?" Peter stammered. "But, uhm how? I don't want to..."

Edmund laughed, free and happy. "Just put your arms like I am, and I'll lob him to you."

"What! No!"

For all Edmund's teasing, the transfer was smooth and his brother easily slid the blanket-wrapped baby into Peter's arms.

Peter refrained from mentioning that their first Prince of Narnia looked squashed and red-faced. If they weren't concerned, he was not.

"He's so small!" Peter exclaimed, marveling at the tiny fingers that would someday hold a sword and a quill.

"Try pulling something that size out of your navel," Morgan said.

Peter stepped as gently as he could to the window; Edmund hovered at his shoulder. The Crows were all perched in the Tree outside, craning their necks for a look. They were all undoubtedly wondering who had won the wagers.

The good Sun streamed in, all light, bright, and warm.

"Welcome, Prince Edmund Linch," Peter said to the baby, his own blood. In his heart, he knew he spoke to one who would someday sit the High King's throne, wear his crown, and bear his sword. "Behold Narnia. I cannot give your our land for she is herself. I cannot give you life, for that your parents have done. I give you my love and protection to my last breath." He bent down and kissed his heir on the forehead. "Aslan's blessing on you and us all. May you be forever in his paws."

The rest of the speech Peter had rehearsed never got said as Edmund Linch took the most solemn moment to loudly demand food and a clean nappy.

* * *

And so we now have AU of the Narnia side of this vision, _**Everybody Lives, Nobody Leaves**_. In a separate story to follow, Morgan requests a gift for her hard work that no one really wants to grant, except Jalur and his motivations are decidedly mixed.

That _plakill_ results in red leather trousers is a nod to the divine WingedFlight. You may thank (or blame) Starbrow who urged me to hit Post.


	2. Plays with the toys of others

**Lost in Translation**  
**Chapter 2  
**

**In which Peter dotes, Morgan pecks, and Fooh and Beehn play with other people's toys**

* * *

This is part of an Everybody Lives, Nobody Leaves AU. The story was supposed to be a single, happy, light one chapter story that concluded with Peter finally "getting the message" he had longed for and racing home to Cair Paravel to greet his nephew, and eventual heir, Prince Edmund Linch.

However...

Readers have noted in both _Harold & Morgan_ and _The Stone Gryphon_ that Peter and Morgan have a formal, even awkward relationship. Reader E wanted an explanation for that discomfort, which I provided previously in my Live Journal. That story is tweaked, expanded, and begins this chapter. The remainder is all new content and was requested by Ruan and others who, after reading of Peter's joy at the news of his nephew's birth, wished to read more of Uncle High King Peter doting and flailing over Morgan during her pregnancy. As such, this is not strictly chronological.

If chapter 1 is about Peter finally understanding Rat and Crow code, chapter 2 is about how Peter and Morgan learn to speak the language of the other. Chapter 3 is Otters.

* * *

"Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable, Morgan?"

"No, sir. I'm fine. We'll be home tomorrow."

Peter heard a sniffle.

It had been a simple trip north. Morgan wanted to assess the feasibility of Marsh-wiggle exports (she had thought there might be a market for their liquor and tobacco among those who preferred truly toxic vices). After the siege of Anvard and the trouncing of the Ettin raiders he had delivered personally, Peter wanted to escort and brief the company that would be patrolling the northern border.

Up and there had been fine. It had all gone to Tash's Hell on the return. The rain was relentless and they lost nearly all of their gear when the pack on one of the horses snapped as they had forded the Shribble. The rain finally stopped and so they sheltered for the night in the Owlwood. They were all cold, wet, and hungry, and even Dwarf-made fire didn't warm much.

Against his back, he felt Morgan shiver .

With his sisters, he would put an arm about her and they could share the single, dry blanket and bedroll together. But this was Morgan who was, as always, keeping her distance from him.

"Fooh? Beehn?" Peter called.

"Yes, High King?" Fooh asked. Peter heard a yawn – that would be Beehn.

"Please join us. It is cold. We will all be warmer with you both here."

The Cheetahs padded over in the dark, eyes glowing, claws softly catching on the leaf litter of the wooded floor. Fooh settled next to him and Beehn curled up with a contented purr next to Morgan on the other side.

Morgan threw her arm over the Cheetah. "Thank you, Beehn."

He wondered how Morgan could tell the difference in the dark. In all but temperament, the Cheetah brothers were nearly identical.

"Is that better?" Peter asked.

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

The Cheetahs' purrs softened to a contented rumble and Peter felt Fooh's tail against his legs.

"Morgan?"

"Sir?"

"Could you please call me 'Peter?' I know it is the highest honorific of your culture, but you are my brother's mate, my own family. The _sir _makes me uncomfortable."

Behind him, he could sense her fingers moving restlessly. Morgan would tease loose thread right out of cloth. Morgan's seams always had to be firmly sewn down.

When she didn't answer, he tried again. "Morgan, you calling me_ sir._.."

"If you want me to answer, you have to stop talking... sir."

Morgan had just interrupted him!? Peter was not accustomed to this. In fact the only person who routinely did so was Morgan. And Susan, occasionally, usually when berating him for some obstinacy that was not in accord with how she would manage the world. Of course, Edmund as well, come to think on it. Lucy wouldn't interrupt - she would laugh at him.

"Very well, Morgan. I shall await your answer." And if they waited long enough, he would fall asleep.

"It is a lot of things," she finally said in halting words.

Another long pause.

"I'm not comfortable around you at all. I don't know if I ever will be."

Having asked, and knowing Morgan's forthright manner, Peter could not very well complain of hurt because his brother's bondmate had responded truthfully.

"I am sorry, Morgan. Is there anything I might..."

"The only thing that would help would be for you to be other than you are. That won't happen."

Blunt and harsh. "But why, Morgan? Can you tell me?"

There was another, even longer, pause.

"Morgan?"

"Don't interrupt me!"

She had not been speaking, so what was he interrupting?

"It's because of who you are," she replied eventually. "You never say the wrong thing, do you? Never at a loss for words? You've never stood in front of someone with your mouth hanging open and words dancing around at your feet mocking you and you have to go running after them, like a Puppy chasing her own tail?"

"No,"' Peter admitted. With an internal wince, he had to admit her words were flowing without inhibition now.

"When you walk in a room, the torches on the wall burn brighter. Everyone turns to you, you draw every eye, everyone tries to be with you. You are so ... so... " She stammered, stumbled, and found her footing. "You are so _big _and _noisy_ in that jolly sort of way. Nothing stops you or intimidates you. You embrace everything and everyone."

"Morgan, really you make too much of..."

"You love wading into the throng." Into his floundering defense, Morgan continued. "And I don't."

"Morgan..."

"Every time I see you, sir, it reminds me of my own failings. That's not comfortable. Or pleasant."

He heard her sniff again and sensed her stroke Beehn, whose purr intensified.

Peter saw that she was right and there was nothing to do about it. They respected one another, he liked Morgan very well, but they would never feel kinship with one another, as he had immediately felt with Aidan. And this was, Peter reflected, perhaps not wholly ill.

"Morgan, whatever of your failings you perceive, which you judge far more harshly than anyone, know that for me, I count as most blessed the day my brother met you. And so you shall always have my deepest thanks."

Peter rolled away and snuggled closer to Fooh who contentedly put a paw over his arm and lay his tail over Peter's waist.

He was nearly asleep when Morgan said softly, "You're welcome. Peter."

ooOOoo

It was a month or more before Peter enjoyed the peace of that damp camp again. And had it not been so quiet at Cair Paravel, it would have been much longer before he noticed anything was amiss. In fact, as before, it probably would have gone right by him without his even noticing until it was over.

Susan had accompanied Lucy to Anvard and they would return with Aidan, his two children and his niece and nephews. Edmund was engaged in long overdue shuttling diplomacy, dispatched to the Islands and other foreign courts to assure all that while Narnia had no intention of turning other heads of state into barnyard animals, all were forewarned that those who harboured aggressive designs would come to a very ill end, indeed.

Peter was left with Morgan to hold down the Castle and deal with all the critical and mundane tasks of running a country from day to day. After Morgan's confession of why she was so ill at ease with him, Peter tried to be more mindful. Understanding that Morgan spoke to herself, silently, long before she would say anything aloud, was revelatory. The beneficial results were immediate once he curbed his impatience and waited her out. As he was no longer interrupting her rapidly running thoughts, Morgan became far less tentative. She also took enormous responsibility upon herself without asking and Peter found it a relief. She had obviously assumed the management of Narnian domestic affairs when she and Lucy had remained at Cair Paravel when he'd ridden North and Susan and Edmund had gone to Tashbaan.

Morgan slid back into that organizational role easily. Perhaps she'd never left it and it was merely that he was more cognizant of her considerable contributions. Morgan seemed to carry all of Narnia's material needs on a spreadsheet in her head.

They had developed a custom of planning the day over breakfast and coffee. Morgan's addiction to coffee surpassed even his own and beginning the day without it was unthinkable for both of them. Together, they would review the morning correspondence and divvy up responsibilities before going their separate ways to see tasks done. They might meet again for a working evening meal to review the outgoing correspondence. It was very productive and business-like; it was not social, but it was not unpleasant or awkward, either. So, it was odd when Morgan skipped the morning meeting two days in a row only to appear in his office at midday, looking wan and ill.

Fooh was not able to divine anything and Beehn never noticed regardless. Peter, therefore, was left to his own investigative devices. On the morning of the third day, he interrupted Mr. Hoberry and Mrs. Furner in furtive, though arm's length, conversation with the prickly Physician.

Becoming suspicious, Peter needed to look no further than the Hounds to find the tale told. The Palace Pack was very fond of Morgan for they valued the loyalty she gave to them and to Narnia. A day's observation showed that fondness had become far more marked. Hounds were, as the saying goes, dogging her every step. When he did finally see her later that day, approaching Morgan required crossing an honour guard of fawning Canines.

The next morning, Morgan again did not appear. Peter intercepted Mrs. Furner on her way to deliver breakfast to Morgan in her and Edmund's rooms. This was also singular as Mrs. Furner hated it when they ate in their bedrooms because she thought it attracted insects, which then involved a thorough cleaning, or insectivores with sticky tongues in the bed linens, and _then _a thorough cleaning. Morgan's breakfast that morning was dry toast, mint leaves, aromatic seeds he associated with tomatoes or bread, and a tea that smelt strongly of ginger biscuits. No coffee. Having both consumed it and delivered it to others who were ailing over the years, Peter recognized immediately the therapeutic intent behind the remedies.

"I shall take the tray to Morgan, Mrs. Furner."

Mrs. Furner protested. They tussled over the tray, spilt a little tea and finally Peter prevailed with a _But I insist_ and the warning that he would make it a command. Peter suspected he would have to invoke monarchical power to get through what would follow.

Rafiqa, Morgan's Guard, was already at her post. Fortunately, the phalanx of Hounds from yesterday had not yet encamped outside her room so Peter was able to make it to the door without stepping on any paws or tails.

"High King," Rafiqa began, sounding very awkward for a normally very conversational Hound. "This is unexpected. Might I suggest…"

"Yes, I will announce myself first, of course," Peter cut in. They were all trying to keep him away and he was feeling testy. "Morgan?" he called, knocking on the door. "It's me. I have your morning tray."

He heard shuffling and the sounds of something wooden falling to the floor. "Oh damn it to Tash's hell!"

Taking her swearing for a "Please come in," Peter pushed open the door and took in the disarray with a glance. Morgan, still in her nightclothes, was in a messy heap on the floor, looking very ill, even more angry, and clinging to a toppled over chair.

Fooh, Beehn, and Rafiqa all crammed into the doorway, growling and looking for an intruder when it was obviously only a mishap.

"Back, all of you!" Peter ordered and pushed passed the hovering, obstructive Guards.

"Morgan?" Rafiqa asked, sounding very worried.

"I'm not hurt, except with embarrassment" Morgan groaned. "I was very comfortable on the floor and standing up was just too far up. Please let me be, Rafiqa."

"Yes, please, do as Morgan and I ask," Peter said. "All of you. Leave us."

Fooh, Beehn, and Rafiqa fell back. Peter closed the door on the curious Guards, quickly set the tray down on the desk and crouched down and looked her over. "You did not fall? Truly, you are not hurt?"

"Hurting, yes, but not hurt," Morgan muttered. "Can you help me up?"

"That and more." Peter righted the chair. Moving very slowly, supporting her about the arms, he helped Morgan rise and steadied the chair so she could slide into it.

"I'm so sorry." Morgan clutched her stomach and swayed. "The room keeps spinning and I might vomit at any moment. I'm…"

"Pregnant," Peter finished.

Morgan nodded. "The tray…" she began. "I need to start with the tea."

Peter was no medic but he'd been at many bedsides over the years – or their stalls, dens, or nests - and knew these were their Physician's remedies for stomach upset. He pulled another chair over, sat next to Morgan and held the cup so she could take tiny sips of the ginger tea. Once she seemed steadier, he put a few seeds in her hands which she carefully put in her mouth and chewed, one at a time. "They help settle things," she said, staring at the seeds in her palm. "I know I look like a bird when I eat them. I'm sorry."

"No apologies. This is wonderful news and I am so very sorry that you are bearing the brunt of this alone."

She sighed and took another sip of tea and chewed on a mint leaf. "Rafiqa and the other Hounds say this one is different than the three before, much stronger. Which is good, but they also think that's why I'm so sick."

The answer was obvious but Peter said, "Edmund doesn't know yet?"

She stared at the cup in her hands and shook her head. The tea sloshed a little on to her nightclothes. Peter put his hand over hers to steady the cup.

"I didn't realize it until after he left," Morgan said with a sigh. " I've not written because, well, it could end up as the others did. I don't want him leaving Seven Isles over nothing. What he is doing is very important."

"Yes, what he is doing is important, but so is this and so are you. Shouldn't he be here?"

"Please, Peter, don't. Not yet."

"I understand your reluctance, but that is a decision for him to make."

"The message about Narnia's aggressive defence of her own interests needs to be delivered to other courts," Morgan insisted. "But we can't also have them thinking we're going to turn all the Crown Heirs into Asses. They need to respect us, not fear us." She must be feeling better because her eyes brightened with the prospect of arguing with him. Or perhaps it was the argument that made her feel better. "Edmund is very well-suited to deliver those messages."

She began vehemently chewing on mint leaves.

"I do not disagree," Peter replied diplomatically. "We do, however, have other qualified representatives. I could certainly order Peridan or Tumnus in Edmund's stead so he may return. Barring that, I could go."

"Boats," Morgan said, pointing out his most grievous weakness. "You'd have to get there by boat."

"True," Peter replied. He hated boats. "Perhaps Susan could go once she returns from Anvard."

"Yes, I suppose." She broke off a corner of dry toast and nibbled on it. He thought her colour was looking better; her hands weren't shaking.

He poured her another cup of tea. "Now, besides filling your cup, what else can I do to ease your time until Edmund returns?"

She bit her lip and mumbled something.

"Pardon?"

"Wouldyouhelpmegetdressed."

"Help you dress?" he repeated for clarification.

"Please?"

"Today, yes." Peter stood and held out his hand. "Hereafter, I shall have Mrs. Furner assign you the maid you have long insisted you do not require. Your humble needs do you credit, Morgan, but do not let that frugality become foolish."

Her request was odd but Peter was not wholly ignorant, either, and the two of them could manage one morning. Stray articles belonging to the women of the household invariably ended up in his cupboard by mistake and he'd been called in to aid Lucy and Susan in all sorts of wardrobe malfunctions and emergencies over the years.

Morgan teetered but he was able to steady her and help her find her find trousers, shirt and underthings. He moved a chair behind a screen so that she could sit while she dressed. It took her a long time but Morgan was uncertain on her feet even when not pregnant and violently ill. She did not say anything, and he did not try to keep up a conversation she would feel awkward in trying to reciprocate.

She finally emerged from behind the screen and held out her arm. "Would you? I'm terrible with ties. Edmund usually …"

Peter fastened the ties on her sleeves and trousers. Morgan bent down to pick up socks and he had to put a hand out for her when she swayed dangerously.

"Oof! That was a bad idea!"

He again guided her to a chair and helped her with stockings and boots. Based upon a conversation he'd inadvertently overheard that now made more sense in context, Peter asked, "Since Edmund isn't here, would you like me to braid your hair for you?"

"If you don't mind? Do you know how?"

"I am probably better with a needle and thread than you or Lucy," Peter said, picking up her hairbrush from the table. "I've braided Lucy and Susan's hair before and would be glad to yours as well, sister."

It wasn't as neat and deft as Edmund managed, but it would do. Morgan drank more of her tea and chewed on her seeds and mint leaves.

"Now, would you like me to stay and escort you downstairs? Or, are you finding your footing again?"

"I'm better. Much better. Thank you, Peter. I'll come down in a little while."

"I spoke seriously before. I shall ask Mrs. Furner to find someone to assist you in the mornings. Until Edmund returns, and so long as this illness persists, I am going to insist upon it."

"I don't want you to think Mrs. Furner hasn't offered," Morgan said, picking again at her dry toast. "It has all been very embarrassing and I didn't want a fuss."

Peter drew himself up with all mock formality and serious frowns. "Must I make it an order, Banker Morgan?"

She laughed. "Oh, it's the Most Royal Frown. I had best attend."

His siblings thought they were so clever in mocking his MRF. Peter knew for fact he had a most imposing MRF and would use it as needed.

"In all seriousness, Morgan, it takes courage to know when you need help and you have a whole Palace of Narnians eager to provide it."

"I know." Morgan looked up from her plate and her gaze slid by his own and disappeared over his shoulder. "I just hate disappointing everyone if this one ends as they did before."

Now Peter felt as if her symptoms were contagious because suddenly the floor tilted and spun beneath his feet. He could not place why the sadness in someone he had lived alongside for so long suddenly struck such a strangely familiar chord within him.

_I have seen this before_.

"Peter?"

He blinked and felt disoriented, almost ill.

The morning fog was lifting outside enough to let the morning sun in. _Sun. Fog._

_Smoke._

_There was smoke. A smell of spice and flowers. Drumming. No, hooves. It had been the sound of hooves stamping out a rhythm on a cave floor. It had been a pounding felt in blood and bones.  
_

Like pictures in a book, images ran by. In his mind's eye, Peter chased after them.

"Peter?" Morgan repeated, now sounding concerned at his gap-mouthed confusion.

He shook his head to clear his vision. "I apologize. It's fine. You simply reminded me of something long forgotten." He squeezed her shoulder and bent down to kiss her cheek. "I understand why you fear, Morgan, but have courage. It will be well."

ooOOoo

The High King – _Peter_, Morgan reminded herself – was very effective in inducing guilt. It was part of his management style. He made you feel like an absolute wretch if you didn't do what he wanted. She was able to shoo him away with the assurance she was doing nothing more alarming than sip ginger tea and chew through a tray of seeds and toast and wait until Mrs. Furner arrived. This time, Morgan would let the Dwarfess help.

She hated this and there was no easy way out of it. Being ill made her feel like an invalid, which she hated. She hated even more how her needs drew attention to something that she was certain would come to nothing. _Again._

The problem was that there were no secrets in Narnia. The Hounds had always realized she was pregnant long before Morgan herself could have possibly known. Three times before, the Hounds had also known the instant she wasn't.

Her stomach was no longer hurling insults at her and the room stopped spinning. In fact, she was able to stand up! It was the little things that, under the circumstances, felt to be huge accomplishments.

"Rafiqa?" she called.

The Hound pushed open the door. "Yes, Morgan? Oh! I say!" Rafiqa trotted in, wagging her tail. "You do seem much better. I am so glad you spoke to the High King!"

"And as you overheard you can now stop badgering me about telling Harold. We need to decide who to send to replace him. But if I don't write to Harold, the High King will do it for me."

Rafiqa put her nose in Morgan's hand. "I know you are worried, Morgan, but King Peter is correct. If it goes ill, King Edmund will wish to be here for you. And if it goes well, he would want to be part of that joy."

"Yes, well, the High King knows how to sway people to do what he wants. He's as clever as a Banker about it."

Rafiqa growled.

"It is truly admirable! I mean no disrespect!" Morgan cried. "Now, can you give me an exam and spare me a trip to the Physician? I'm not up for dodging Porcupine quills this morning." She held out her arms out so that the Hound could smell her all over.

Rafiqa's tail thwapped happily against Morgan's leg. "Everything is very well. I know you have been feeling terribly but I assure you, everything inside is normal and very strong and every day is better than the last."

"Thank you, Friend." Morgan ran her hand over Rafiqa's head and the Hound licked her.

As much as she loved Narnia and Harold, Morgan did sometimes wish that her medical professionals had hands instead of paws, wouldn't drool on her, and couldn't stab her with their own quills if she stood too close.

Mrs. Furner bustled in after Rafiqa's examination. The Dwarfess was not as clairvoyant as Mr. Hoberry but it was a close thing. Morgan was feeling well enough to help her tidy the room.

"Now, Slyvatica, she's a charming Beech who has been helping in the kitchens. From now on, I'll have her come up as soon as your ring in the mornings."

"Thank you, Mrs. Furner," Morgan replied. To alter the arrangement would mean trying to countermand Peter's order and that would only draw even more attention to her ridiculous situation. She wondered how her mother had managed. Felice had been perpetually pregnant and carried and birthed with no difficulty. Why had she not inherited the same faculty?

But burdens shared, burdens lessened, and all that. It was churlish to refuse help when everyone was eager and she was waking up every morning sick as a … well, not _dog_, since Rafiqa wouldn't like that.

She had a sudden inspiration. "Jezebel is always fussing over the state of my hair and she does have a keen eye. Might she lend a paw?"

Morgan pushed aside the thought of how delighted the Beaver would be to finally have a little Princess to dress in gigantic, beautifully tied bows.

"She would be _thrilled_," Mrs. Furner said, sounding very dry. "Now, the High King is in his office so I'll help you down there and make sure you are steady on your feet. And don't go thinking I'm being meddlesome. Early with my fourth, I would get so dizzy, I'd faint. Broke my nose going down, once. Bloody mess it was."

With so dire a warning, Morgan accepted the hovering assistance.

Unlike her own office, which was spacious, airy and perfectly furnished for working and conducting business, the High King had, so the story went, appropriated a large closet in the first year of his reign on the main floor of the Palace. Peter treated it as a very private sanctum. The spare room was only cleaned when he was present and the seating for visitors was so uncomfortable no one ever stayed long.

She knocked on the door, not bothering to announce herself when Fooh would have already told Peter. There also weren't that many Narnians about right now who could knock.

"Come in, Morgan!"

She pushed the door open; Rafiqa stuck her head and then withdrew again. "It is too cramped with Fooh and Beehn in there," Rafiqa said with a disapproving curl of her lip. "I will stay out here in the hall."

Cats and Dogs could only tolerate one another so much and while Rafiqa liked Fooh well enough, she found Beehn grating.

The High King was not sprawled on his couch or hunched in his uncomfortable desk chair. He was bent over a large storage locker that Morgan had always assumed kept papers.

Behn was in one corner chewing on a large bone. Fooh's head was buried in the trunk.

"Whatz thisf?" Fooh asked in a muffled voice. The reason for his indistinct speech became clear as the Cheetah had a rag between his teeth and was pulling it from the trunk.

Peter laughed. "It's what remains of a blanket I stole from Mrs. Furner and kept in your mother's den when you were Cubs. You and Beehn shredded it so completely, I could never return it and had to hide the damage."

Beehn raised his head. "I remember that blanket! You kept it?"

"I did indeed," Peter said.

"I hawv it now," Fooh countered. He was purring loudly. With the torn blanket scrap clamped firmly in his jaws, he backed up and retreated to another corner of the room.

Morgan looked in the trunk. The top tray was filled with wadded up parchment and gnawed on leather balls, bleached knuckle bones, feathers, bits of yarn stolen from spinners, and pieces of rope and string. To a non-Narnian, these things were detritus.

"The High King has a secret stash of toys for Narnian children?"

"I am discovered," Peter admitted. "I keep the things for the Kits, Cubs, and Pups in here. I have a drawer in my desk with toys for the Chicks. There is a stall in the stables with things some of the young herd Beasts enjoy."

He plucked a feather out and twirled it between his fingers.

"Your news put me in the mind of it and I should have realized that once I opened the trunk, Fooh and Beehn would want to explore what was inside."

Beehn growled contentedly on his bone; Fooh was pawing and rolling in the blanket. "It's all very indulgent, but I enjoy giving the joy and seeing them play."

"It makes me feel teary," Morgan admitted, thoroughly surprised at Peter's sentimentality. "Though that might just be the pregnancy." Proving her point, Morgan sniffled and hurriedly wiped her nose on her handkerchief. "Do you…"

She started to blurt it out without thinking.

"Do I what?" Peter asked, replacing the feather in the tray.

"Have any toys for Humans? For babies?"

"Yes," Peter said, very slowly.

Now Morgan weighed the choice. Did she want to see these things? Or would it make it worse when, as she told herself she surely would, she felt the sudden twinge or suddenly nothing at all and the Hounds all whinged?

"Would you show the Human toys to me?"

"Are you certain?"

Morgan nodded.

Peter bent down and carefully lifted the top tray out of the trunk to reveal what was below.

Morgan stared, utterly shocked. The bottom of the trunk was filled with toys – dolls, cloth-stuffed animals, blocks, balls, picture books, puzzles, games, and so many other wondrous things. They were beautifully fashioned, lovingly made, and brightly colored.

"How long have you been collecting these things?" Morgan asked. She picked up a wooden block with pictures and letters painted on it for learning the alphabet.

"Years. From almost the very beginning when I realized that after securing his land, the King's next duty was to assure a succession thereafter. With all the diplomatic visits, it's remarkable how often a Monarch is taken on shopping excursions – the market in lower Anvard town, the bazaar in Tashbaan, the Galman stores. I was expected to do them the courtesy of buying something, but so many things could be fraught with political uncertainty, even offense. I never went wrong buying a child's toy. This is only…"

He trailed off. Morgan studied the flush in Peter's face and the way he was looking down.

"There's more?" she asked.

Peter nodded. "These are just the toys. I have another trunk in my rooms with play weapons, wooden swords and shields, bows and blunt arrows, all sorts of things."

"They're beautiful, Peter." She felt weepy again, thinking of little hands holding these toys.

"So now you know how terribly sentimental and romantically wistful the High King of Narnia is to be collecting children's toys as a dragon hoards his treasure."

"I won't tell anyone," Morgan assured him. "It will be our secret."

He reached down and pulled out a rabbit-shaped toy, stitched out of cloth and stuffed with wool. It rattled as he shook it. "I have always liked this one."

It was adorable in a bright red checked cloth with the soft, fuzzy ears of a lop-eared rabbit. "Do you suppose a stuffed rabbit would cause a political problem?" Morgan asked. "Would the Talking Rabbits be insulted? Or think it an honour? Or maybe the other small Talking Beasts would feel slighted so you would have to fill a nursery with stuffed hedgehogs, mice, rats, moles and voles?"

"Narnians are a fractious lot," Peter replied. He waved the rabbit. "I shall take charge of the gift-giving and spoiling the children and Susan can negotiate the disputes my indulgent behavior causes."

"Or we can find a stuffed fish instead and give the rabbit to Jalur."

"What about me?" Beehn said. "I'd like that toy as much as Jalur and he already has the big stuffed Otter bone."

"_You_ get the knucklebones and feathers," Peter replied.

They both laughed as Beehn laid back his ears and growled.

Spying something familiar, she put the block back in the trunk and withdrew a rag doll. It was Galman-made but intended for a Lone Island Banker child because the doll was dressed in Meryl blue with swirls of waves and dolphins on her robe.

"I had one just like this," she said, holding up the doll. "If you see one in Linch green, could you…."

Morgan swallowed the rest. She was doing it again – running ahead with hopes when she had told herself to expect it all to end, again.

And as horrid as it had been for her and for Harold, all the lovingly kept toys showed that Peter had obviously been affected, too. He'd always been very kind before, but Morgan had never thought he was this emotionally invested. Peter was so large, and confident, and took so many things in stride, she had never known he would feel so deeply about her failure to have children.

"I'm sorry, Peter," she blurted out, feeling awful. "I am pawing these beautiful toys like a greedy thing assuming they were all for me when you…"

She tried to put the doll back but Peter stayed her hand. "Morgan, please, it is as I said about the toys for the Cubs and Pups. It would give me great joy to shower my nieces and nephews with indulgent gifts and spoil them all senseless." His arms were so long, he didn't even have to reach to pull her into an awkward embrace.

"But you should be saving them," she sniffed. "For your sons and daughters."

He sighed so heavily, Fooh mewled. "High King?" the Cheetah asked, sounding concerned.

"I am fine, Fooh," Peter said. "Morgan, I knew a long time ago that I would never be able to give Narnia the stability of an heir that our country deserves. What made me a good High King also made me poorly equipped for what you and Edmund share, or Lucy and Aidan."

"Don't say that!" she cried.

"Saying or not saying doesn't change the fact or how I feel about it." He took her by the shoulders, and looked down at her. Morgan tried to concentrate but she felt her nerves rise, as they usually did around the High King. Her eyes slide away over his shoulder. She stared at Fooh, who was sitting up and watching them closely; the blanket scrap dangled from his mouth. It was blue and dirty...

She pulled her attention back to Peter's shoulder; his faded red shirt was covered in white, black and yellow Cheetah hair.

"What? Peter, I'm sorry, were you saying something?"

"I was trying to tell you that I meant what I said in the Owlwood. We were _all_ _most_ blessed the day you arrived in Narnia, regardless of whether any heirs are gotten, and you _do not_ owe Narnia what I was myself unable to accomplish."

Now he was making her sniffle so much her nose was really running. Why was it so bloody complicated? She never would have thought Peter, who always seemed to do everything so easily and perfectly, would understand this feeling of acute failure, this inability to do this one simple thing that people did every day throughout the Known Lands. Peter didn't fail at _anything_.

Morgan pulled away from him so she could get at her handkerchief and dropped the Meryl doll back into the trunk, hating herself for wishing it was dressed in Linch green. "Well, Lucy and Aidan can get the heirs, right? And our nieces and nephews will get all the toys."

She blew her running nose and angrily shoved the handkerchief back into her pocket.

"I would not have you be bitter, Morgan. He turned the rabbit over in his hands, shook it again, and smiled at the soft, sweet sound. "Narnia will have her succession. Not through me, to be sure, but I am very happy for the joy that surely is coming, and soon."

This confidence was more like the Peter that she expected. "How can you know that?" Morgan demanded, wishing it all the same. She angrily wiped a tear away on her sleeve.

"I do. I feel it, with great certainty." Peter was looking at her oddly again; he had that same expression from earlier of confusion and surprise.

"You're doing it again," she said. "You said in my room before that I reminded you of something. Have you remembered what it was?"

"I have. I should to speak to Pliny and Eirene about it. They were both there when it happened."

"The Centaurs? What happened?"

"From my great bonding with Narnia. One of the challenges was to partake of a smoke ritual with the Centaurs. It involved a very potent drug which, the Centaurs said, opened my mind to visions of the future. I remember the illness but no visions, until today. I am certain I saw you and Aidan in my visions."

"Really?!" All her anxiety was forgotten with the curiosity of the phenomenon Peter was describing. _How extraordinary!_ If Bankers ever saw visions, it was due to lack of sleep and too much coffee during the audit season leading up to Conclave. Those sorts of hallucinations invariably led to accounting errors. "But that was over ten years ago! How could you have seen us?"

Peter shrugged and fondled the stuffed rabbit's soft, floppy ears. "Who can say? Such deep mysticism is beyond my poor ken. I saw you and Aidan, and I saw my nieces and nephews. As surely as I feel the magic of Narnia, I know one of them will wear my crown someday."

Morgan stared at him. "High King, as your Banker, I must advise that magic is _not_ a sound basis for policymaking and investment decisions."

"So you have said, Banker Morgan, and We do not disagree."

Peter put the rabbit gently back in the trunk, replaced the tray, and closed the lid. "Fortunately, I do not speak of policy or long term investment strategies, but of hope."

ooOOoo

Thanks for reading!  
June 2013

* * *

And now, next up, Narnia owes the Otters a favor and they've come to collect.

Sign ups have begun for the Narnia Fic Exchange! Links are in my Live Journal! I hope you will sign up and offer a great prompt, receive a great story, and write a great story for someone else.

My thanks to Starbrow for the support.


	3. Otter Nonsense

**Lost in Translation**  
_Chapter 3, Otter Nonsense_

* * *

After readers asked for Peter doting upon a pregnant Morgan (provided in Chapter 2), there were further requests for added Otters. Readers were also interested in seeing more of what happens to the very colourful Otters Gnash and Bitel after _Herd Mentality_. Those requests and questions are answered here. Because there are Otters, this means some foul language follows, though Bitel and Gnash are (deliberately) not as reprehensibly foul as in other stories.

* * *

Dost thou not suspect my place? Dost thou not suspect my years? O that he were here to write me down an ass! But, masters, remember that I am an ass; though it be not written down, yet forget not that I am an ass. No, thou villain, thou art full of piety, as shall be proved upon thee by good witness. I am a wise fellow, and, which is more, an officer, and, which is more, a householder, and, which is more, as pretty a piece of flesh as any is in Messina, and one that knows the law, go to; and a rich fellow enough, go to; and a fellow that hath had losses, and one that hath two gowns and every thing handsome about him. Bring him away. O that I had been writ down an ass!

W. Shakespeare, _Much Ado About Nothing (Dogberry), Act IV, Scene 2._

* * *

Being so sleep-deprived, Edmund did not put the pieces together right away. He was not complaining, mind. He was most definitely not complaining! But as Morgan was up every few hours to nurse Edmund Linch (_Son! My child! Prince! Ours! Ours! See what we did?! Isn't he wonderful?! Isn't Morgan amazing!_), Edmund would naturally rouse as well to render moral support.

Never mind that he was the person least equipped in the family to manage on short sleep rations. That would not affect him. Surely not.

The gifts began as a trickle. Messengers arrived first on horseback bearing messages and small, valuable things hurriedly stuffed in saddlebags and wrapped in the colours and markings of the great Banking Houses of the Lone Islands. Whilst before Edmund Linch's birth, the gifts had come for the baby-to-be, these that came after were for Morgan. Bankers sent her writing quills, fine parchment, beautifully bound ledgers, and ownership shares in business ventures and guilds. There was some frippery as well, silk scarves, soft, woolen wraps, gilded pins, combs, and jewelry. Every gift had the elusive quality of superb, subdued taste that was acquired only with great cost.

The ship arrived at the end of the month when his son's erratic, nocturnal schedule had reduced Edmund to stumbling about and running into walls.

The Lone Island Bankers had commissioned _an entire ship_ and filled it with precious things for Morgan.

"Oh yes," Morgan said, commenting nonchalantly upon the ship's manifest. She handed him a soiled nappy to dispose of and kept the manifest for herself. "It's customary for the Houses to give gifts to a Banker who has given birth, both as a congratulations and to replace the lost income her temporary absence causes. It's a form of communal paid maternal leave."

Edmund began an inventory of the items gifted to his mate, fell asleep over the accounting of shares in the Seven Isles guilds, and awoke a day later having drooled on the thank-you notes he'd penned.

"Jalur!" Edmund ranted at his Guard. "Why didn't you wake me?"

The Tiger yawned, stretched, and his claws snagged on the Tower Library rugs. "You were so irritable, Banker Morgan bribed me with a trip to the Glasswater to see the Otters if I let you sleep a full night."

_Betrayed by Guard and wife._

Going first to the nursery, he was impeded by the joint Guard stationed there – a Tiger and a Hound – for neither would cede to the other the privilege of guarding Prince Edmund Linch.

"The Cub is sleeping within having been awake most the night," Nethra, the Tigress, whispered.

"The High King was singing to him," Hamza added. The Hound cocked his head to the side. "They _both_ rest now."

Edmund cracked the door; it noiselessly opened on well-oiled hinges. Peeking in, he saw Peter had nodded off in a rocking chair and the baby was lying on his cot. He quietly eased the door shut. Peter had the red and white stuffed rabbit in his lap, which was some sort of private joke between his brother and Morgan. Susan was still sorting through the petitions from other Narnians requesting that they also be permitted to provide a representative, suitably stuffed, for the Royal Nursery.

Morgan was in her office, behind her desk, looking a little weary, and very contented. She accepted the short kiss and the longer embrace and then waved him to a chair. "I don't have much time before the Cub wakes up so please don't distract me."

"You tried to get rid of me!" Edmund accused taking a seat next to her.

"Tried and succeeded. You are looking much better for a full night's rest."

"But I should have been with you."

"Yes, but it will be more helpful to overall management if one of us is able to think clearly." She yawned. "This irregularity must come from your side of the family."

"Or perhaps the coffee that runs in the veins of your family has manifested in infancy?"

"I hope not."

The piles on the desk moved rapidly from one side to the other under her busy hands.

"Morgan, you really do not have to be working now. Just as Peter is with Edmund Linch now, one of us could go through your desk and the paperwork."

"It's _my_ precious hour and so I may do as I like," Morgan replied. She gestured to the stack of ownership certificates received from the Bankers. "And I like opening my presents. Speaking of…" She looked up at him, expectantly.

Edmund eyed the pile of new and considerable wealth gifted to his mate and came to a sinking realization that this was part of the Lone Islands birthing cultural practice he had not been aware of and so had neglected. Fortunately (and yes it was undoubtedly a decent night's sleep that allowed him to do so), he could make a quick recovery.

"I have given deep thought to your maternity gift. In anticipating what the Bankers would give you, I became concerned that a fitting and commensurate gift would bankrupt the Narnia treasury. Anything from our royal storehouse was right out as you had inventoried it three years ago and would have laid claim then to anything had you wanted it."

She laughed. "Well played, Harold."

He bowed his head acknowledging the compliment to his ready wit. He wouldn't reveal that said wit was present only because she had manipulated him into sleeping for a whole night, though come to think, that might be why Morgan had prevailed upon Jalur to let him sleep. This was all a part of Morgan's convoluted and cunning plan to get her desired gift. Perhaps he should be concerned that his mate had resorted to such stratagems to achieve her desired end? From her first visit to Narnia when she finessed the language of the contract covering her stay and manipulated the Otters with oranges, Morgan could be _very_ devious.

"And so what, Morgan, dearest, would you like in recognition of your hard work to bring our son into the world? For nothing is its equal but how might I show you profound appreciation all the same? Would you like an hour a day to call your own? An IOU on performance from Volume 3, illustrations 4, 12 and 21? Sequentially?"

His imagination was thrilled at the prospect of performance of illustrations 4, 12 and most especially 21. His intellect thought it an impressive offer but doubted his ability to make good on the promise – a judgment Morgan concurred in for she snorted and shook her head in disbelief.

"Failing that," he continued gamely, "Controlling interest in a shipping line? We could just order out our fleet and Lucy could turn privateer and commandeer one for you. "

"Tempting, but no, as the reparations would likely negate any benefit." She set down her quill with a gleam painful experience had taught did not bode well. "As it happens, I know precisely what I wish."

She told him.

Edmund stared. "You cannot be serious."

"Of course I am. Besides, I promised Jalur we could go to the Glasswater so he could threaten the Otters."

_Betrayed by wife and Guard. Again._

"You bribed my Guard!" Edmund protested.

"You asked what I wanted, and that's what I want. Jalur agreed."

"Jalur's opinion doesn't matter in this! He would agree to anything for the prospect of threatening Otters!"

"It's what I want," she countered, sounding far more firm than defensive.

"But, you need a Monarch of Narnia to do this!"

"And you are?"

Edmund closed his mouth, opened it, closed it again, ran fingers through his hair, and tapped nervously on the desk. Morgan continued to sort through the new ownership interests she had received, unconcerned.

"Wouldn't you prefer something a trifle less extreme?" Edmund finally pressed. He felt no guilt in trying to get her to reconsider. This was extraordinary and the only thing less likely than him doing it was convincing Peter to do so. Lucy would be more likely to lead a pirate raid against that merchant vessel.

"Might I convince you of something more easily managed and more easily obtained? The entire contents of the Calormene treasury? A Winged Horse?"

"Or a polite Otter?" Morgan answered.

ooOOoo

"… so declares High King Peter, Wolf's-Bane, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Lion, Emperor of the Lone Islands, Lord of Cair Paravel, this day…"

"I don't think they're listening," Morgan said.

"No," Edmund agreed wearily. He rolled up the scroll, turned in his saddle and tucked the proclamation back into his bag. "It was a waste of ink and parchment even drafting it up."

Jalur roared and shook off Bitel the Otter who had been clinging to his back and gnawing on his ears. No sooner did Bitel roll away than the other Otter, Gnash, launched himself at Jalur. Tiger and Otter threw themselves down the creek embankment and into the Glasswater. They landed with an enormous splash.

Morgan urged her placid mare forward; the horse paused her chewing and took a reluctant step to draw even with his mount. "Why don't I try? Would you take the Cub?"

This led to a complex but well-rehearsed transfer from mother to father of Edmund Linch, his swaddle, and the sling that held him. Morgan slid out of her saddle and landed heavily on the ground. She removed two oranges from her own saddlebag and strode to the creek's edge where Jalur, Bitel and Gnash were all wrestling in the water and flinging bits of muck and bracken. The Otters were swearing and cackling with malicious glee at the return of their enemy and sparring partner. Jalur was spitting and growling. They were all enjoying themselves immensely. Jalur picked up Bitel in his jaws and tossed the Otter downstream.

"Oi! You filthy dickwad!" Gnash screeched and launched himself at Jalur's hindquarters. The two rolled over and over in the shallows.

"Bitel! Gnash!" Morgan shouted. "If you want any oranges, attend on me _now_!"

She had to shout it three more times; Edmund wasn't worried that she would wake the sleeping Cub. As it turned out, their son was wholly nocturnal with the daytime sleep habits of a hibernating bear. So long as the Sun was in the sky, explosions, trumpets, howling Wolves and yowling Cats would not disturb Edmund Linch.

"Oi! Bugger me blind, it's the Orange Lady!" Bitel spat out Jalur's tail and bounded back up the embankment. Gnash followed.

Jalur scrambled out of the Glasswater and shook himself, spraying water and fur everywhere. The odor of wet Feline and Otter musk assailed Edmund's senses. Even the Cub made a little mew in his arms. Edmund hoped the baby might wake now, during the daytime, thereby perhaps yielding sleep at night. It was not to be so. With a sigh, the Cub snuggled deeper into the sling hung around Edmund's front and nodded off again, as soundly as before.

Morgan crouched down and the Otters stood on their hind legs.

"Give us the oranges!" Gnash demanded, grasping for the fruit Morgan held, but too closely for them to steal.

"Not so fast," Bitel snapped. "We're not due for a payment. What's the catch?"

"No catch," Morgan said. "I have important news for you."

"Sod off. We do more work, we get more oranges," Gnash said.

"Not work. An Honour, a great Honour, even," Morgan said, moving the oranges between her hands and taunting her rapt audience.

"So who'd give _us_ an Honour?" Bitel snapped. "We know we're exiled down here with the bleeding snakes and those bleeding Horses."

"The Crown of Narnia wishes to honour you most especially because of that very work you have done here so very well," Morgan said.

In truth, that was a lie. (Edmund could have clarified the position of the Crown of Narnia as he was certainly authorised to speak on behalf of said Crown. Edmund the Just! Justice! _The quality of being just; righteousness, equitableness, or moral rightness; to uphold the justice of a cause, the administering of deserved punishment or reward; and the maintenance or administration of what is just by law, as by judicial, legislative, or other proceedings; also, a court of justice_. All this time and he still loved his title, even more than _Magnificent, Valiant, Gentle_, or even _Banker_.)

The Crown did _appreciate _the Otters. It was simply that such Honours were reserved for those who were honourable, rather than vile, vulgar and foul-mouthed. This was _all _Morgan's doing alone.

Every misgiving Edmund had was borne out when Morgan solemnly delivered the news to the Otters of the Honour to be bestowed upon them. Bitel and Gnash threw themselves on the grass and laughed uproariously.

With a snarl, Jalur drew back a massive paw (velveted) and swatted the hysterical Otters back into the creek.

ooOOoo

Predictably, Peter had refused. Susan avoided the issue entirely by saying that as she had never been knighted, she could not possibly be the one to bestow the Honour. Lucy begged off, explaining that the temptation to slice off the head of the Otter a Monarch was knighting into her Order was simply too overwhelming. It had given Edmund enormous admiration for Jalur's ability to mouth, toss, bat, and bowl Otters and not actually bite down on them. Like Lucy, Edmund was not confident in his own self-restraint if he had Cianclist in his hands and a bowed Otter head before him.

The solution was, therefore, legalistic. When in doubt, _delegate_ and this was all Morgan's doing anyway. As a rule, they did not enact private bills for the benefit of a single individual but, well, if ever there was need for an exception, this was it. Narnia Special Laws 20-5 established the Most Noble Order Of The Orange Tree, Favours and Honours to be dispensed by a consort to the royal house of Narnia for services of exceptional acumen and wit rendered to the Crown or her subjects. Morgan drafted most of the law herself and agonized over every word even while acknowledging that she would be the one administering it for decades still to come.

Then, they had to fashion something for Morgan to do the knighting with because what Edmund might do, accidentally on purpose, in slicing off the head of the Otter kneeling before him, Morgan could easily accomplish just by accident.

"I do like my sword thing," Morgan said, swinging the new symbol of her authority about.

It was _not _a sword. Morgan and objects sharper than a quill were not to be mixed. She still referred to his broadsword, Cianclist, as the "big sword thing" and Eirene's claymore as "biggest sword thing." Edmund wasn't envious of his mate's admiration of a Centauress' strength with a sword. _No, not in the least._ _Truly. Even if he couldn't even raise Eirene's claymore over his head. Not that he'd tried. More than a few times. Well, maybe ten. Or twelve. But who was counting?_

As sharp objects were right out for Morgan, the Dwarfs in the Smithy fashioned a rod of silver and green jade set with bright orange fire opals. It was a fitting "sword" for the Order of the Orange Tree and the Banker who would wield it. Morgan was thrilled. She'd knocked over three flower vases, brought down two tapestries, and dented a stone wall and a suit of armor with her enthusiastic swinging of her new Orange Tree scepter.

This Midsummer, the only Honours to be awarded were to Bitel and Gnash. Susan and Peter, gritting their teeth, had decided that no one else's Honours should be sullied by Otter theatrics. Or swearing. Or ruckus and general Tash's hell-raising.

It would be a miracle if they all survived this with no murder done.

They did try to make it an appropriately solemn occasion. The Monarchs and their consorts were all dressed in their finery, the bright silks and satins in red, gold, and green. Morgan had even donned the diadem of gold and green fashioned for her. Aidan kept putting on and taking off the circlet he had borrowed from the storehouse and finally gave up and stuffed it in a pocket.

The crowd who had gathered for the Knighting ceremony was far larger than Edmund had anticipated. Perhaps the Narnians were hoping to see blood spilt in the Great Hall when someone's self-control gave way at the prospect of knighting an Otter.

There were trumpets and fanfare and they all processed in to beating drums and cheers. The windows were thrown open and curious Birds perched on every ledge. Especially in the summer warmth, there was a strong, pervasive odor of sweat, grass, and that special, very Narnian scent of hairy mammal.

They arranged themselves upon their thrones on the dais. Peter took the High King's throne, Rhindon across his knees; Lucy bore her gifts. It wasn't as if Morgan noticed that he had polished Cianclist brightly for the day, but Edmund brought his own sword nonetheless. Susan volunteered to carry the Cub in his sling; her Horn was slung on her other hip. Since Edmund Linch had kept them up all night, he was likely to sleep right through the knighting ceremony until dusk.

Morgan and Aidan, as royal consorts, sat below the royal dais. Aidan had to continually duck and swerve to avoid Morgan swinging her scepter and getting "crowned" himself.

It was warm, it was crowded, it was an olfactory banquet_, _it was noisy, and the Otters were late to their own knighting.

Edmund secretly hoped that the Cub would suddenly throw a screaming tantrum that would necessitate his Da's intervention and require that they both leave the scene. He glanced at Susan sitting next to him and thought she was rocking the baby a little more vigorously than might otherwise be warranted. His sister obviously had the same cunning plan of manufacturing a baby-related escape.

The minutes ticked by and finally Peter frowned and asked loudly and pointedly, "Has anyone seen our Honourees?"

With a sigh, Lucy rose from her throne and stepped off the dais to where the Horses were standing. As the Otters were being honoured in part for their services on behalf of Gwen and Rose, the two Mares, and Bree, were standing close to the dais.

"Would you all see if you can locate Bitel and Gnash and bring them here?" Lucy asked the Horses.

"Excellent idea, Lucy!" Morgan cried, nearly coshing Aidan, again, with the scepter. "Try the bathing pond!"

The Horses bowed and pushed their way toward the front doors and left the Great Hall.

They waited. The crowd grew noisier and the heat rose in the room. Edmund could see that Peter was moving from bored to truly irritated. Susan was bouncing Edmund Linch on her lap hard enough that if she kept it up, Edmund thought his son would burp up all over his sister's fine silks.

_By the Lion_, that would be another way to escape this ordeal! Surely emergency-Cub-spit-up would require _both_ of them to leave. He would have to take the Cub whilst Susan cleaned her gown. Though, this was likely another ruse of Susan's for she surely had a sop cloth cleverly hidden somewhere and would be able to excuse herself with no damage done.

Before Edmund could implement this plan of action, the doors swung open again. The crowd noise rose and drowned out the clopping of Horse hooves on marble. The Horses' return to the Great Hall was the stuff of great theater. Bree walked ahead, stately, gently nudging curious onlookers to the side and clearing a path to the dais. Behind him, Bitel was riding on Rose and Gnash was aboard Gwen. The Otters were chirping, waving, gnawing on snails, and spitting the shells out into the crowd, as if they were triumphant warriors returning from battle and throwing flowers to their admirers. They were green with slime and black with mud. The scent of warm mammal now warred with and regrettably lost to the stench of wet, musky Otter and pond scum.

"Oi! Why didn't someone come find us?" Bitel demanded and jumped off Rose.

"Because you should have been here already," Rose replied. Snail shells cracked under her stomping hoof.

Gnash sucked up the last bit of gooey snail and spit the shell out. "Hey! What da hell?" Gwen ducked her shoulder, shook, and the Otter slid off her back and tumbled to the floor.

The Horses shoved the Otters forward. "Pay attention and be polite!" Gwen scolded.

Edmund didn't hear precisely what Rose said, but it was profane enough to make the Otters both laugh. He knew the Mare had a tongue as salty as any soldier or sailor.

Morgan rose from her seat and brandished her scepter which gave so lethal an impression, she forced the Otters to flatten on the steps before her.

"What in bleeding..."

"Thank you all for coming!" Morgan called out to the assembly.

_Swing._

She really did love her scepter. If she killed kill an Otter by accident Edmund would happily grant Royal Clemency.

"We all come here this day to induct into the new Order of the Orange Tree the Otters Bitel and Gnash."

_Swing._

There was a thunk as the scepter connected with marble step. The Otters winced, cowered, and swore.

"The Order of the Orange Tree is awarded by a Consort of a Monarch to any Narnian who has demonstrated exceptional wit, cunning, and cleverness."

_Swing._

Morgan had been rehearsing this speech for days. When she spoke from memory and to a mostly non-Human audience, she did very well. Having faced down hostile Bankers, rulers, and financial advisors in all the Known Realms, Otters did not intimidate her in the least. Morgan just talked right over Bitel and Gnash's swearing protests as she continued to brandish her scepter about, as fierce as any Ettin with a cudgel, but with far less accuracy.

"By the efforts of Bitel and Gnash, Narnia is kept secure. When venomous snakes threatened Narnia, Bitel captained the effort to find and kill..."

"What a cock up! She's no captain!" Gnash said with a cackle. "Bitel's just a first rate arse."

Bitel hissed. "Am too, so shut your piehole, you..."

The Otters had to swallow their own venom as Morgan's scepter whistled over their heads and she continued on as if there had been no interruption at all.

"...to find and kill the snakes and keep the Glasswater safe. Bitel also exhibited exceptional wisdom, perspicacity, and quick wit in rendering aid to Rose the Mare after she was set upon by her Herd..."

"Hey!" Gnash shrieked. "I helped, too, with rescuing Rose from those buggering dickwad Stallions!"

Bitel leaned over and bit him. "I'm still the one doing the captaining, just like the Orange Lady said!"

"The hell you are!"

"As for the services of Gnash," Morgan shouted over the bickering, "this noble Otter..."

"Noble!? _Bollocks_!" Bitel cried.

"Shut it!" Gnash snapped.

_Swing._

"Buggering hell, she'll kill us with that thing!"

"... also rendered wise advice and comfort to Rose the Mare and was instrumental in promptly notifying the Crown of the crimes done to Rose by the Glasswater herds."

Morgan raised the scepter up over her head and Edmund harbored a wild hope that was dashed when she brought it down again to knight Gnash by tapping her scepter on the Otter's head and shoulder.

"For your service, Narnia thanks you, Sir..."

"Piss off," Gnash snapped.

Murmurs of disgust and disapproval rose from the crowd. The perching Birds squawked from their windows. Even the Crows were protesting. Edmund was particularly annoyed on his mate's behalf that the Otter was being so disrespectful to his benefactor and sponsor.

"Otter!" Peter warned from his throne. "You test Our..."

"Piss off!" Gnash repeated.

"Oh, but of course!" Morgan exclaimed. She waved the scepter again. "You may rise, Sir Piss Off."

Gnash jumped up, climbed a step, and reached up to rub noses with Morgan. "Thanks, Orange Lady!"

He scampered down the step and gave Bitel a shove. "Your turn, arsehat."

Bitel knelt on the step below where Morgan stood. The Otter was trying to comb her fur, as if maybe, finally, realizing that this was a solemn occasion where one typically picked the snail shells out of one's fur _before _arriving at Cair Paravel.

"By the authority vested in me, I welcome you into the Order of the Orange Tree." Morgan tapped her scepter on Bitel's shoulders and head. "You may rise, Dame..."

"Arsehat," Bitel interrupted. "I'm Damned Arsehat and don't any of you blighters forget it!"

Truer words had never been spoken in Cair Paravel.

* * *

I keep meaning to end _Lost in Translation_ and then someone comes up with another clever idea for the AU, everybody lives, nobody leaves.

And now I must try to turn to the Narnia Fanfiction Exchange and thereafter, pick up AW and finish Harold and Morgan.

Thank you so very, very much for reviewing what is really a very silly tale.

Thanks to OldFashionedGirl95 for the Much Ado quote and to Starbrow for the moral support.


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